


Stain

by tinsnip



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Barter, Debauched, F/M, but that doesn't mean it's pure, it might be love, trade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2381033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her job is to sanitize the universe for the consumption of the Cardassian people. But Terok Nor is too dirty for her to clean...<br/>The only thing left to do is to get dirty herself.</p><p>Written for the ds9 tumblzine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stain

**Author's Note:**

> Potentially triggering content. For details, hover here. May contain spoilers.

There's a simple rule to her work: all things are for the best. Given that guideline, the rest comes together easily.

She is a vessel through which information passes, strained and weighed and sifted, to the Cardassian people. She is a correspondent for the Information Service, and this means that she is free to wander the galaxy, moving wherever people want her to be, where their ears want to hear and their eyes want to see. She goes where they please, sees what they're curious about, observes, evaluates—

She does not speak.

Not freely, at least. Every word she says is watched. Everything she does is monitored. She must remain clean. Someone who represents the galaxy to Cardassia must, to be sure, be reflecting the kind of galaxy Cardassia _needs_ to see, not the kind of galaxy that really exists, and so she must censor herself—no, _correct_ herself in an infinity of tiny ways every moment, with every word she says, from broadcasts with smiles to reports with minute notes along the side. Every word that leaves her lips is carefully chosen, permitted to fall into the air, calculated for how it will land, and here, cutting through all this, is what he does for her: he lets her talk.

With him there is no artifice. There's no need to convince or persuade, no requirement to shade reality in approachable, easily consumed ways. The first time she talks to him, he outright propositions her—her! right there at the bar!—and she laughs in his face. From that moment on, there's no importance to her conversations with him. She allows herself the delightful freedom of being outright rude, and he bounces back every time, smiling wider. It feels wonderful, and it's _allowed._ Who could possibly care if the tightly-wound, perfectly controlled correspondent is rude to a Ferengi bartender? He is, after all, the lowest of the low.

Well, almost… there are, after all, all these Bajorans around…

Oh, these Bajorans…

It's not at all permissible to transmit pity through the comm lines. The Cardassian people would not be positively motivated by despair. A hollow face, a bruised eye, a child without a mother… who would benefit from seeing these things? She doesn't. There's no way to interpret them that doesn't ache. Better to forget.

And forgetting is possible, once she learns the tricks. There are bright points in her existence on the station. Sometimes it's dinner with the Gul, who smiles and oils at her. Other times it's a concert, or a tour of a Bajoran province, or even a shuttle ride around the planet to point out the beauty of its slow transformation into something optimally efficient. Best, though, are the times when she can be herself, _by_ herself. Not in her quarters: she can hear herself think there. Instead, it's the bar, and her seat in the corner. One glass of kanar… two, three… an evening spent watching the people come and go, the laughter, the singing, the sound of the Dabo wheel… and he's always there, busy with this and that, mixing drinks, smiling at customers, making friends…

Often when she looks over at him, he's watching her.

She could talk to him, she thinks. Really talk, not just slap-up, slap-down… But what would be the point? It doesn't seem likely that he would understand. Instead she looks into her drink, watches its ripples, warm and safe in her corner, surrounded by sound and darkness.

She has to leave the bar eventually. She drags herself home through metal corridors, and in the morning when she wakes up, when she steps out on to the Promenade, there they are again, working, starving, somehow alive…

She holds herself upright in front of them. She does not hear their cries. She does not sneak them food through the fence that walls them away, she does not toss used clothing to the floor where it could be easily snatched up by someone sent to clean her quarters, and she most definitely does not ever order an extra supper and leave it lying carelessly on the table when she goes out for the evening, knowing that all plates will be cleared, all utensils tucked away on her return. None of these things would be appropriate for a correspondent of the Information Service, whose eyes are searchlights and whose heart is pure, and so she does not do them.

But he does.

She catches him one day. Not at all on purpose. She is documenting the efficiency of the ore transfer, and how the increased number of Bajorans per shift is resulting in doubled production. The people like efficiency. She's watching, writing, and off to the side she hears a whisper, a voice that's familiar, that belongs to a safe place, a dark place, not _this_ place—

When he sees her, his eyes widen. The man with him, hands full of half-eaten menkre rolls, turns and bolts. He's left standing alone, and as she watches, he clenches his fists, hides the latinum in them, smiles disarmingly.

"Miss Lang! What a surprise to run into you here!"

Her eyes narrow. "What are you doing here, Quark?"

It turns out he's doing what she would very much like to.

The knowledge opens doors in her mind. Suddenly things seem possible. In ways she's never imagined: possible, even easy. All she has to do is watch him, watch and learn…

Her reputation with the other people on the station is immediately tarnished, because what kind of right-minded Cardassian would spend so much of her free time at a bar run by a thieving Ferengi? Certainly not one who's invited to dine with the Gul. Not one whose time is occupied with social engagements. These things dry up and blow away, and now she has all the time in the world to waste at a dark, noisy bar, a bar filled with people who don't care.

Is her time completely wasted? That depends on how one looks at it. Certainly she's not living up to the ideals of a Union Correspondent. She's a glutton now—she'll order three appetizers and let them lie untasted until they're cleared away (by a Bajoran servitor whose eyes are downcast). She'll have two, three, four glasses of kanar and get sloppy-drunk, laughing loud at the Dabo table, tipping wildly with slips of latinum that fly from her fingers barely seen. (Does some make it to the Bajorans? There's no way to know…) By day she remains pure, elevated and separate from the station's roil; by night she embraces it, shrieking laughter, ignoring the stares.

He's always there, barely seen, watching her watching him. And he doesn't judge her. He doesn't care. He sees her, the food, the money, but he doesn't comment. He doesn't ask about the way her second tongue tilts to pity or to rage when she talks about her day. She knows, and he knows she knows, and so it's a dance, not quite acknowledged. All around them are the military, drinking and shouting and laughing, and with one word she could end everything for him…

But she doesn't. Instead she sits and smiles and drinks, and slowly his smile widens. Day by day, leaning over the bar, she spins for herself and her bartender a world of secrets, unspoken promises hidden under a layer of desire, flagrant propositions, equally flagrant refusals, and under it all… something shared, something strange…

Her drink is never empty. A fresh glass is slid into her hand before she knows it. She's attended to. She's cradled. It's very different than the cradling provided by the Union. It's much more day-to-day, it's very pointed: _keep me safe and I will satisfy your every desire._

Can purity have desires? Can someone immaculate want to be just a little bit dirty? _Oh, yes…_

She likes it. And she could lose herself in it… but the Bajorans are there, hiding their children from angry guards, fighting over bowls of soup, trying so hard to live and she can't forget. It can't leak into her writing, her vidrecords. Tips and leftovers aren't enough anymore. Something has to give.

 _I_ _have to give._

And here are open doors and possibilities, offered to her in a glass before she knows she wants them, and it has to be, it must be for the best…

One day, at the Dabo table, as a little experiment, she whispers his name under her breath. Inaudible, impossible for any normal person to hear… but he's there at her elbow immediately, and she smiles at him.

"You heard me."

"Anywhere. Anywhere at all. Say my name and I'll run to you."

She laughs, delighted with him, with herself, with their brazenness and the strength of her need. The words leap from her lips and she feels them pull her down:

"You'd do anything to be with me, wouldn't you, Quark?"

"Anything," he says, grinning snaggle-toothed, and she bites her lip. He's the only one who's ever talked to her that way, the only one she has ever permitted to look at her like that, because she owns him, she could have his life in a second, and he doesn't matter to her at all except that he is _essential_.

_Please, please…_

"Could you be good?"

He laughs. "I'm better than you could ever imagine…"

"Prove it," she says, eyes wide. "I have a business proposition for you. Something you really want."

Something crosses his face: a shadow of surprise… but he's listening. "Go on."

The next time he meets with the hungry man by the fence, he takes with him her extra clothes. Too many clothes, unwanted. 'Frivolity,' they'll say: the correspondent who wants the best of everything and tires of it in days, even on a space station in the back end of nowhere, she thinks she's in the capital, and who does she think cares if she's seen in the same outfit twice…

And if a Bajoran child is one day clad in a skirt that bears a suspicious resemblance to a red dress she'd tossed aside, well… fabric is fabric, and such things can't be easily traced.

("Perhaps one day I'll take them off for you, Quark."

A glint of teeth. "Promises, promises.")

Through him, she buys medicine. He trots to the chemist for her almost every day. It's for her headaches, you see. They're endless. 'Women,' the guard by the chemist laughs, 'they think too much,' and she laughs too when Quark tells her, takes two pills for herself, slides the rest back to him. It vanishes. She has faith that it will reappear somewhere else, somewhere it's needed. She can imagine that there is less shouting, now, behind the fence. She is certain there are fewer screams.

("Is there anything else I can do to make you feel better?"

"I feel just fine," she says, running a finger along his right earlobe, watching his eyes.)

Little tasks build up, little errands are run, and the two of them dance along a very fine line. It's all pretense, all play-acting: _I want you because you're useful, you want me because I'm beautiful, and this is nothing more._ The Bajorans are the centre of everything. They're certainly not an excuse to see him. She doesn't need an excuse to see him. But there can't be anything wrong with wanting to see him, can there?

"What else can I do for you, Natima?" he asks her, always smiling. "There's got to be something else I can do to keep you here." If her heart skips, well, that's her own stupidity. She knows it's just a game to him, a transaction: a job to do in order to earn a promised reward.

And it's not so bad, being someone's reward.

The first night she has dinner with him alone in the bar after hours (two cases of infant nutritional formula slipped into a crawl-space and left to vanish!), she tilts her head, smiling, and touches his nose with her own. It's just a nose. She's almost disappointed. But his eyes widen.

"Come on, now, Quark… surely this is what you've been wanting all along?"

"I can't deny that," he says, but there's something just a bit off-balance about his smile…

Two nights later he tells her that he's managed to offload three packs of antibiotics safely—three!—and in pleasure she leans forward and kisses him.

It's not bad. It's actually very, very nice. His lips are just lips. He's very warm. And it's been a long time…

From there it doesn't take long (clothes, food, excuses) until she's in his bed, and he's careful, careful, and she is careful too because nothing is quite right… still, somehow, they make it work, and oh, no one has touched her like this in years… no one has been safe enough, sanitized enough to be permitted anywhere near her secret self, let alone her public profile. Now, though, she is thoroughly debauched; she's station gossip, smitten with a Ferengi, filthy through and through, and so she giggles in his bed because there is no further she can fall. She opens up for him, lets him have her. He's demanding, he's strong, and she lets herself be enjoyed, lets herself be his prize, delights in it, is taken somewhere far away from this dirty station and its squabbling life and the need to rise above it all. It's good, so good, to hit bottom…

Later she looks down at him. His eyes are closed. His ears are bent slightly forward by the pillow against them.

"Now, what will all this buy me?" she asks, laughing, almost shaking with the way she feels.

His eyes open, that strange, clear blue. The way he looks at her is hard to interpret. The grin is easier. "I think my prices just went down," he says, and she leans in, kisses him, eats those words, keeps it all their secret.

The days dance by. The nights spin. She laughs at nothing, at the stars outside the viewports, at the kanar in her cup. Her reports flow from her fingertips. Her smile winks at her vidcorder. The Cardassian people are taught that the galaxy is joyful; that nothing is wrong; that there's hope in all things. It's lies, lies, a thick coating of untruth on every word, and she savours the taste. Inside her, encased in bone, her heart beats strongly, and he can hear it; sometimes she sits at the bar, smiling at him as he mixes a drink, and he taps a finger as he works, tapping out her heartbeat, matching her rhythm, _beat, beat, beat…_

"We could do more, you know," he says to her one night as they lie on the banks of the river, watching the butterflies circle above them. Celebration, happiness in her: blankets _and_ food wrapped in them, and that very night she'd watched through the fence as an old woman had pulled an indigo blanket tight around herself and smiled—

"More than what? More than this?" She's lazy, completely happy, debauched and delighted. She runs her finger over the wrinkles on his nose.

"More for them. That's what you want, isn't it? The real reason someone like you is here with someone like me?"

"I…"

And that is what she wants, isn't it? Just to help? All of this other business, this offering and taking… that's a means to an end. The important thing is food in mouths, clothes on bodies… Yes.

"Yes. Yes, that's what I want."

He laughs low in his chest, a snicker that shades to a sigh. "I thought so." He shifts under her; she rubs her cheek against his chest. "I know you, Natima. You're so pure."

It's nice that he thinks of her that way. It's wrong. She won't tell him. "You're too kind."

"But I'm not. You know that." His sharp teeth nip the ridges on her chin; he kisses the tip of her nose. "Use me. Think of what I could do for you… the connections I have… and they'd never trace it back to you… you'd stay clean…"

Impure and wonderful, and he makes her feel things she's never felt before. Her private criminal, her gateway to things she's not supposed to see, her guardian. Oh, she loves him.

They arrange it very simply: he steals her access code. It's not hard to set up. She brings him to her quarters one night—forbidden delight! and the guards roll their eyes and stare—and when he leaves in the morning, the very first thing he does is use her code to buy his breakfast. Of course it's traced. Of course they know it isn't her accessing the terminal. And they let him do it, because a foolish person, stupid enough to twist themselves up with an alien, deserves what they get. It's so easy. Later, together in his quarters, laughing over fresh graw-eggs and setto stew, they pretend to be the onlookers, the watchers. "She'll learn her lesson this time," he says, squawking disapproval, and she dissolves into giggles, covers her mouth to hide her open smile.

From then on he uses it sparingly, only to get what she can't, and always checking with her first—or at least later. "They could use it," he says, showing her the disassembled mini-replicator. "I'm sure they can get it working—and it was only twelve strips of latinum!" She nods, frowning; it's fair, and he makes it vanish, and somebody is very likely eating better tonight…

A mini-replicator to start with—but then a haul of used clothes, three pairs of good boots, a case—a full case—of nearly-fresh hasperat—!

"Where do you find it all?"

"I have my sources," he says modestly, and she knows not to push too hard. Her secrets are as tightly held as his are, and they meet in the middle where their secrets don't belong. It's business, just business… but in the meantime there's a warm bed, and fingers along her shoulders and down her back, her front, trailing over her thighs, marking her, making her sigh…

"For you," he says as she walks into the bar one night, "you'll love it," and he holds out the drink, taps the glass, _ting._ It's orange. She smiles at it as the guards roll their eyes.

"What is it?"

"It's a Samarian Sunset. It's just for you."

"What's in it?"

"You'd rather not know," he says, grinning wickedly, and she grins back and drinks it and it burns down her throat. Her lips are stained orange.

More clothes, more medicine, more reports, the station spinning around her, and at night, warmth and kisses and being opened and taken and used as she has never been. Every night she's his reward. "You're good," she whispers, "you're so good," and he laughs up at her. Their mouths meet and meet again, and in the morning it doesn't matter if she's slept at all because she's awake, alive like she has never been. Her mouth tastes like Samarian Sunsets. She's filthy and glorious.

"An opportunity," he says one night, a month into her adventure. "But it could be dangerous."

"What is it, Quark?" She's curious, excited.

"You might not want to know all the details." He holds up a dataclip. "I know someone who wants this. Don't ask where I got it. And they'll give us medication… supplies… but they can't come anywhere near the station."

"How can I help?"

"It won't be cheap," he says, and he's right: the cost to rent the day-cruiser is near-astronomical. She can afford it, though: representatives of the Union, out walking the galaxy, are expected to be bright-plumed. She smiles brightly, rides in the front with the Bajoran guide who Represents His Species, points and gasps at all the right things, and in the back, he does what needs doing.

That night he's ebullient, glowing. He toasts her again and again, and she drinks to herself, laughing.

"You're my fortune, Natima. You're worth your weight in latinum!" The bottle he unwraps is beautiful, and he holds it out to her. "For you. For my Cardassian sandgem."

He tips the bottle to her lips. She tastes it. Her eyes widen.

"Where did you get that?" Real, aged nesot'niv is hard to come by—the berries grow only on Prime, only in a few areas, and the cost is outrageous. He dips a finger in it, lifts it to her mouth to paint her lips, and she frowns at him. "Don't waste it!"

He's laughing. "Don't worry about it. With what we made today, we can afford our own vineyard."

Even then, after everything she knows about him, she doesn't quite understand. She's that naive.

"I thought— it's just medication, isn't it? We just traded information for supplies."

"Of course, of course." He's expansive. "But I don't know any rule saying only one person can use a set of financial codes, do you? And a clever businessman with valid access codes can finagle his way into a lot of profit…"

The bottom drops out.

"You stole _money?"_

He's so proud. "Our client was very appreciative. The Cardassian government hasn't been very forthcoming with some fees owed to him. Or so he says—I'm not going to ask questions—and besides, I kept a solid twenty percent. A little for them, a little for us—don't you see, Natima?" His palms are wide, his gestures exuberant. He wants to thrill her. "It all adds up! That financial information got us supplies—and a backdoor in. Next time, instead of sneaking around with strangers who are, may I say, frankly dangerous, why not just go straight for the latinum? They'll never know it went missing. Then we can buy more supplies—we can get some land downworld, maybe, or even become suppliers for a whole camp—more than just this little station—and the two of us, well, don't you think we deserve to live in style?" He claps his hands together. "Finally, finally, a good solid profit! I knew if I kept digging there'd be something to sweeten the pot!"

There aren't any words.

His smile is fading. "Natima?"

Her lips are numb. She can't enunciate. She can't select her words. "You stole money."

"Yes…?" he says, uncertain and half-laughing, waiting for the punchline.

"You don't even care about the medical supplies, do you. Or the Bajorans." Her voice is heavy. "You did all this for the money."

His eyes widen. His lips part, then press together.

"What else was I supposed to do it for?"

There's dirt in her mouth.

"It could have been for me…"

He honestly doesn't understand. He's shaking his head, confused, angry. "I did do it for you!"

"No, you did it to line your pockets. The fact that it made me happy had nothing to do with it—"

"Oh," he says, suddenly snapping, staring at her, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize my motives needed to be completely pure to help people who are starving, I didn't realize it was improper of me to make a profit—"

"That's not what I'm saying! I just—don't you think what we're doing is important?"

He's lost. "Of course it is! It matters to you—that makes it important to me!"

"But it should matter to _you_ , too—helping should be enough for you!" _I should be enough for you! I'm your reward, your only reward—_

His hands are open, his eyes are wide. His voice is strained and thick. _"Why?"_

Oh, she is so dirty. All over her body, all over every word she speaks… She's so stupid: she knew what he was, she knew what he valued, she used it to her advantage to get what she wanted and now he's done the same to her and she is dirty, she'll never be clean.

"You lied to me, Quark." And she can't even begin to explain all the ways.

The worst part is he doesn't understand. As her anger turns to shouting, as his pleas turn to miserable snipes, as they snarl at each other, his affect is entirely innocent. He's done nothing wrong. He's only tried to please. And who is she to take from him his pleasure, his reward? Who is she to tug it away when it's so well-earned?

"I thought you could be good," she says, her voice scraping from her throat, and his face twists in incredulity.

"Good? By whose standards? I'm not you, Natima, and I don't want to be. I'm a good _Ferengi._ And don't you dare look down on that!"

Is she deluded? Is this really her fault? Nesot'niv burns in her throat.

"Can't you help anyone else without taking a piece for yourself? Can't you do anything clean?"

"Let me tell you something, Natima. In this life, you can't help anybody unless you help yourself first."

"But this is— this is—"

"Too base for you?" He snarls the words. "Too dirty? I thought you were smarter than this. If you want to make things better for anyone—really make things better, not just pretend—you're going to have to learn to get your hands dirty!"

They stare at each other, eyes on eyes, and she can feel everywhere he's touched her. She's marked.

The worst part is that the words are right there on her lips, wanting to be said: _You're right, Quark. It's safer this way. It's better. You're right._ And then he'd hold her, he'd touch her again and she'd be safe, and then the next time, and the next and the next—

She thinks like he does now. Her thoughts are stained. That has to be bad. It _has_ to be, because otherwise, what is she? _What am I becoming?_

She's someone who trades herself away piece by piece to get what she wants. She's someone who _likes_ it.

_I want him—I want him, and it's not so wrong to want to keep a little for myself—it doesn't have to be pure all the time, it doesn't have to live up to anyone's high ideals, it just has to go on and on—_

He's a thief. And she's a whore. _And I like it that way._

It's good that this has happened now, before she could be completely ruined for any good purpose. It's for the best. It has to be.

She leaves him, his protestations cut off by the hiss of the door. She's dizzy, half-drunk on stolen wine. She walks home, her eyes seeing nothing, finding her way by rote memory. She sits on her sofa. She stares at the floor. She changes her access code.

The next day and every day after, everything on the space station is sour to the touch, to the taste. The recycled air is thick and heavy with greed, and her so'c rebels, her stomach turns. Everything tastes like dirt, everything is slick-slimy on her hands and the wailing of the Bajorans is never-ending. There's nothing she can do, no one she can turn to, and every time she walks by the bar he's _looking at her—_

_Request re-assignment._

_Granted._

On the transport cruiser, surrounded by the finest furnishings, by soft-hued art, by bright-scaled servitors who smile and scurry, she asks the bartender for a Samarian Sunset. He raises his brow ridges, mixes it, taps the glass: _ting._

She dips a finger in, watches the colour shift, paints her lips. Her fingertip is stained orange.

Another finger. Another. One at a time, dipping, tasting, until her fingers are all orange and the taste fills her mouth.

"Back to Prime?" says the bartender, smiling, and she smiles back.

"Finally, yes."

"Good for you. Everything looks better under the sun of home."

"Yes," she says, "yes," and then nothing else, because there's nothing else to say. He drifts away. She sits, watching the stars, the people. The bar is filled with soft-moving shadows as the stars flit by.

There are no Bajorans here. That's something. The ache is lessened. But the military are still all around her, laughing, talking, spreading plumes, and she can't stop seeing them…

She breathes slow and easy, watching her people, preparing to interpret their actions for the best possible good… but it's all dimmer, stained darker, and when she pulls out her padd, she writes with dirty hands.


End file.
